


Three Times Shaken

by kentuckybarnes (hannah_jpg)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Reader-Insert, more a drabble really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 07:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16113773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/kentuckybarnes
Summary: Three times Bucky Barnes needed to be brought back.





	Three Times Shaken

When Bucky moves into Avengers Tower after his stay in Wakanda, he’s not completely well. Mostly well. Mostly stable. No longer prone to outbursts. But still...not always  _well_.

The first time it happens, he’s on a mission. A simple mission - reconnaissance outside a mansion where he and a few other members of the team are keeping a lookout for suspicious activity. Arms dealing, the report had said. All things considered, Bucky should have been fine. But he wasn’t.

Steve was the one that found him, perched in a tall tree that straddled the fence surrounding the mansion. By that time Bucky was shaking head to foot, completely rigid where he sat, and unable to move even an inch. His eyes were glazed over, the plates of his vibranium arm grinding together with a sick screeching sound that made Steve wince.

“Hey, Buck,” he says softly, climbing the tree slowly. Bucky doesn’t move. “Mission’s over. We can go home.”

A single blink. Bucky’s eyes begin to burn, and he tried to force himself to look at Steve. Had he even been breathing? At once his lungs fill with air as he gulps, wrenching his teeth apart.

“What’s going on?” he asks roughly. He couldn’t remember where he was, what he was doing…

Steve sat on a branch across the trunk from Bucky. Completely casual, as if he wasn’t he least bit disturbed by the state Bucky was in. Which he was, of course. 

“We’re here to find out if the loser that owns this place - ” Steve jerks his head towards the mansion, “ - is smuggling weapons to the black market. He is. We’re going to come up with a plan and come back later.”

“Uh, where are we, exactly?”

“South of Amalfi. Italy.”

Italy. Right. Bucky takes another breath, unclenching his fingers now from where they were digging into the branch at his side, leaving ten deep imprints. The bones in his flesh hand ache; how long had he been sitting like that? As the adrenaline slowly begins to taper off, replaced by a bone-deep weariness, making his limbs heavy and his posture droop.

“Steve? Did you find him?”

The voice from the base of the tree is soft. Gentle. Feminine. He knows that voice.

“I found him,” Steve calls back.

“The jet is ready.”

“We’ll be there soon.”

Bucky listens to the retreating footsteps. Through the leaves of the tree, he can see your back as you dart from shadow to shadow beneath the moon, towards where the jet must be. Wherever that was.

“You okay?” Steve asks after a moment.

“Yeah.”

Bucky didn’t look away from where you disappeared.

The second time Bucky loses himself isn’t until about two months later, just long enough that he had begun to hope that he wouldn’t have another episode. No one is really willing to speak about it with him, which he’s awkwardly grateful for, but sometimes he catches a flash of uncertainty in someone’s eyes, or pity. Pity from Stark isn’t quite the same as the warmth he felt from you, even if the pity was comparable.

It happened during a game. One minute he was laughing along as you and Steve played several cards against Sam, who was raring to win - and the next minute all he could hear were the shuddering pops of gunshot, the screams, the groans - cracks and crashes and weeping -

Bucky nearly topples over in his chair when he feels a warm hand on his face. A half-strangled shout catches in his throat, and as his heart beats a violent tattoo, his gaze isn’t on a war-torn, bloody village anymore - it’s on you.

You had been sitting beside him. You must have noticed his condition first; you were leaning over him, tracing the line of his jaw with gentle, warm fingers as incomprehensible sadness clouds your eyes. Your chair is on the floor, and half the cards on the table are scattered around. It’s dead silent. Steve and Sam are staring at him, Bucky’s sure - but as his eyes flicker around, trying to ground himself, they look away.

“What’s going on?” Bucky forces the words past his dry throat. He tries not to notice that he has crumpled several cards in his hand. Probably beyond repair.

“We’re playing a game, Buck,” you answer him softly. “Sam’s about to win, but we can’t let him.”

“Oh.” He thinks he remembers that. Sort of. “Okay.”

“Do you need a break?” Steve asks.

“No. I don’t think so.” Bucky tilts his head as your hand draws away - he wants your warmth back. Your touch grounds him better than anything else has so far. He takes a deep breath, trying to smooth out the ruined cards in his hand as you pick up your chair. Had it fallen over in your haste to bring him back? Or had he knocked you over?

Bucky doesn’t want to know.

The third time Bucky loses himself, it’s while he’s sleeping. The blessed darkness of rest warps into one of horror - how long he’s entrapped there, he doesn’t know. But when he jerks awake, heart pounding and sweat filming his body, he’s alone.

In a bed. A bedroom. Sheer curtains cover a window; not enough to block out the city lights beyond it. The purple of dawn is just visible at the skyline, and if he’s not mistaken - it had been raining. Crystal raindrops shine on the glass pane.

Bucky shifts. The sheets are sticky now, and he pushes the covers away. He’s...not wearing any clothing. He doesn’t remember being naked. Does he?

A door squeaks open, and he jolts as he stares to his left - you’re there; wrapped in a towel and your damp hair knotted on top of your head. You’re smiling. His heart begins to pound again. And then your smile falters.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, sitting beside Bucky’s prone form on the bed.

“What’s - what’s going on?”

“I’m getting ready for work,” you tell him with a grimace. “You know how much Stark insist on punctuality.”

Does he?

As Bucky tries to orient himself - the bedroom must be yours, because he definitely doesn’t have this many plants - your fingers brush against his forehead, pushing the damp hair away from his face. A sensuous twist in his stomach has him blinking -  had he? - had you? -

“Did you have a nightmare?” Your words are barely audible, but sink into his bones in a heavy wave of relief.

“Yeah,” Bucky says hoarsely.

“Do you know where you are?”

“I - I think so.”

“Do you remember…?” your brows arch in question.

“N - no…” Bucky wets his lips with his tongue. He can’t take his eyes from you; from your fresh, clean face, your shy smile. The curve of your naked throat. A water droplet tracing that curve slowly before disappearing into the towel. “Maybe?” he adds, hesitantly.

Your next words are a whisper. “I can remind you.”

“O - oh?”

The towel falls to the floor.

Bucky remembers. Oh, boy, does he remember - it might have made him blush, but he’s too busy kissing the love bites he’d left on you as you straddle him.

 _You_ are more grounding than anything.

 


End file.
